


Seal

by WritingfromtheVoid



Category: Pact - Wildbow, Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Magical Realism, Spirits replace Shards, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingfromtheVoid/pseuds/WritingfromtheVoid
Summary: At the lowest point in her life, Taylor finds herself making contact with Weaver. A powerful and sympathetic spirit seemingly too eager to help her adjust to the world of Spirits and Others. However she finds that her newfound freedom comes with strings that even magic can't help her see.Everything has a price and in exchange for power her newfound patron only ask Taylors to keep giving her one thing, stories. How hard could that possibly be?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Fable 1.1

Fable 1.1

Seeing the chalk fade made her only more frustrated. How were they able to do this so fast? Taylor slumped on her chair, tired. It seemed so easy in the books and the news. As far as most people knew, Practitioners could conjure chalk circles without effort. She knew the shape of it like the back of her hand. The tessellating spiderweb. Not meant for human hands.

She blinked.

Imperfections, a line of chalk crossing where it wasn't supposed to. Rather than ruining the shape, it gave way to a new design. Taylor drew her web and watched it unfold from with each scratch of chalk. She'd set aside offerings of powers; Scarabs and spiders preserved in resin. A rotting piece of meat crawling with a few maggots. Soil with three drops of blood given at the exact same time every three days for the past month. The last piece, however, was more than just another piece of power. There needed to be a focus, a plot device from the narrative of her life. Her mother's flute, or what remained of it. Broken and with each little piece cleaned and polished with her bare hands. Her tutor stared down on her from a space above spaces. A spider with as many eyes as there were narratives to watch. Legs long enough to reach across a web as vast as histories.

As she stepped into the web, she felt a sense of dread. Not a fear with a reason, but more the sickness of it distilled. She wanted to pray. However, praying was a bit complicated nowadays. Considering there were now all manners of gods and deities to call upon. Maybe she'd just plead to the spirits of the world. Maybe the spirit of the milk crate in the corner was well liked by the other spirits.

_Spirits don't mean something is alive, it means it has a story. Spirits are stories the world tells itself and about itself. Most stories are simple, 'I am the flame on your candle’, ‘I am the wind at your cheek’, ‘I am the raindrop running down your forehead’. Simple stories make simple spirits. Not many can read their narratives like I can._

Weaver's wisdom left a sour taste in her mouth. This ritual was less wordy than the awakening, yet it had the same soul changing effects nonetheless. The world gave way around her, contorting until the entire universe consisted of her and the web. This world was not one of matter and mess but pure shape and meaning. There was no floor and there was no chalk. Taylor was the center of a web of white lines in a vast plain of darkness, going on and on but somehow still only the size of the basement she was in. The web didn't move like a clock, it moved like it was being spun as fast as it was being unraveled. Spirits moved through and left. This was not the web she drew, but it was the one she sought to capture. Its meaning and shape, the perfect geometry of it unbound by the limits of chalk and graphite. The lines traveled through her and the the web shrank as she pulled it in. Where did the offerings go? Did it simply get dumped into some empty void beyond the universe? Did it get taken apart atom by atom? Taylor found it funny she was just now thinking rationally when she was getting a hit of something close to the divine. She looked down and saw the chalk scattered on the floor, no longer organized in its shape.

She looked up at the clock and saw she still had five hours.

Maybe she should've been a chronomancer.

So after cleaning and hiding the evidence of the ritual Taylor resigned herself to eating cereal in front of the TV. Same news as usual. Prayers answered by Scion, god kings in Africa, some story about a celebrity. She tuned out. Stories, so many stories.

_Delicious, are they not?_

She was tired, but it was hard to sleep much now, thanks to Weaver.

"I think I'll settle for this," Taylor responded, taking another spoonful.

She continued eating. Odd how she could still eat and enjoy tv calmly considering what she had later tonight. A fly landed on her shoulder, body intact but mind caught on a web she could not see.

'She's doing it again,' the fly buzzed as it flew, and Taylor heard the words in the silence between wing beats. 'He got a C minus. He won't go to school tomorrow. The bruises are visible.'

Just like that she was no longer hungry.  
__

Taylor knew vaguely of the movers and shakers in Brockton.

The first was Lung, the host of a dragon. The beast who fought Protectorate champions and won. Next was Kaiser, son of Allfather. A family who made a pact with Dvalin and gained the power to shape and call forth the waste metal of the blacksmith's forge. Of course, the metal was only waste by the standards of a divine being. Skidmark was barely noteworthy here, however. A gang leader, more goblin than man now, with the crude ability to affect trajectory and friction with the tugging of connections and spirits. Getting power from a spirit of addiction rigged circumstances in his favor. Alongside that he was a useful figurehead of choice for quite a few Others.

They were monsters that wouldn't even so much as say "Take that you worm!" as they broke her faster than a window in an action movie. The bugs around her chittered information to her, more stories and more tales to feed Weaver. They were whispers and hearsay, but Weaver needed more than that to sate her. Taylor knew she was under a lot of pressure, but nonetheless felt as weightless as silk. She was wearing armor comprised of spider silk and glued together bug shells. She tailored a dress suit that split into coattails at the back, a design that straddled a line between archaic and modern. It had no tie. Instead at its collar was a dream catcher that would dampen the more abstract forces arrayed against her, so that the spirits of her enemies’ territory would not weight the dice against her. The feathers had come from birds she’d caught in spider webs and killed in a bowl of water outside her house.

_You are the spider and I am the web. You hang by one sturdy thread. This thread is faith. You think this to be false but very few actually know when they have faith in something._

"I hear you," Taylor said. "If you want stories then I'll give you your damn stories."  
__

Act normal, she told herself as she got out with her costume packed in a bag. But what did it mean to be normal now? Normal after all was a luxury since the Second Coming. Since Scion appeared and crippled the Seal of Solomon. Since the world became aware of gods and monsters. Since parahumans appeared and people became blessed with the powers of gods, angels and spirits. Literal actual wizards came out of hiding and proceeded to release the Inquisition part II, now with actual heretics and witches.

Now she was one of those blessed. Taylor knew that she was more a Practitioner than a host. Weaver was her patron and shaped her practice, but aside from a few blessings she didn't really alter her all that much. Weaver taught her symbolism but not symbols. The language of magic had logic but no one alphabet. Runes were a means to wield meaning after all. The best way to teach them were to let the Practitioner interpret and create their own personal dialect of runes that worked best for them. Unfortunately, that took far longer than three weeks to do so.

Taylor stalked the shadows of Brockton Bay, for they carried her faster. She watched and sidestepped the connections of sight and observation. After some time, she entered what appeared to be a condemned building. She changed in the stairwell and climbed to the roof. From there she used her sight and her insects to find a target. Empire 88 territory was a topographic map of human suffering. She studied it and searched for the nearest hill from which that suffering poured down. Hidden in urban sprawl was a warehouse no longer in use, abandoned and in ruin, with a large garage door where trucks would put their cargo. Taylor narrowed her eyes. Evil would not rest tonight. But first she realized she needed to find a way to the warehouse unseen.  
__

_The impact of a Parable's lesson is proportional to how much its characters struggle to reach the virtue. Any lord or king can give a coin to a beggar. But a struggling merchant gives so much more of himself when he gives succor to the struggling._

A skinhead in E88 colors groaned as Taylor pulled the zip ties.

"What the hell does this have to do with anything?"

"I-I ," the man started, through mosquito bitten lips.

"Not you," Taylor said, sighing. She felt a little disappointed. He was a guard as far as she could tell. An intense looking one too. Big, but as she found out, in a fat way, with the tattoos associated with the gang. From a distance he was the platonic form of a neonazi. He must've fooled his friends as well to be allowed on guard duty. A middle aged man, drunk and possibly high. She tried distracting him with mosquitoes but that turned out to be enough when he fell over and hit his head on a yellow parking pole. Once zip tied she began her binding. A line that she had invented and practiced for ten minutes since seeing the warehouse twenty minutes ago.

"I place you under arrest. You belong to a people of crime. You wear their symbols and arm yourself to guard their places. Remain still, remain silent and remain compliant."

Weaver assisted too, spiders weaving silk cords. She used another trick that was practically Practitioner 101, obscuring runes. Taylor drew a small book of post it notes that she’d filled with runes. She placed them in a semi circle around the man and connected each of them with a thread of spider silk. She gathered the mosquitoes she used and asked them kindly to all gather on the blank middle note, then squashed their abdomens with her thumbs, soaking the page with stolen blood. That charged it with enough power to let him be unnoticed For about ten minutes, assuming he remained stationary. Soon enough she saw the effect take place.

Taylor peered inside. She asked the bugs for all they saw and felt and they complied. The image inside, however, was still too blurry, so she asked for a peephole, and a group of spiders told her of a small crevice created by the bend of the garage door. She peeped inside, and with that was able to piece together the whole image. There were four people talking inside: An older man was talking to a younger man, pointing to a brick of white material wrapped tight in plastic. He had knife in hand, cutting and dividing the contents of the white bricks into portions.

She asked for all they heard and they delivered. 

"Two for a dollar not four. Don't care what crap the Merchants sell for. Fifty cents? Most of that is just glass and baking sod-"

It cut off, and Taylor clenched her eyes to mitigate the pain. She’d heard enough, now she was ready.

Taylor flew into battle. Or rather she realized that using the garage door would be too slow and found an entrance right next to the main one. She thought about breaking in but knew that doors were sturdier than people gave them credit for. She thought for a few seconds, and remembered the first guard she fought.

"Compliance, speak and only tell me how to get in the door next to the truck entrance."

"I have keys," the man rasped, glaring hatefully while doing so. Taylor grabbed said key and ran back to the door. She tried each key twice until she found the right one. Now came the epic battle.

The most advanced trick she learned from Weaver was how to skitter from connection to connection. The world was a web, everyone and everything always in conversation with each other. Inertia, distance and gravity were nothing but the negotiation between a great many elements of the world. If one could partially shunt themselves into the plane of spirits then they might be able to sidestep a few of these existential legalities. She traveled along them, going from one thread to another. First she’d hit the younger man. She aimed her baton, ready to go all in. Only to miss and hit the table like an idiot. The other members stood up, pausing as if to process the situation at hand.

"Mask!" the others yelled. They drew their guns. Taylor realized that maybe there was a reason charging into battle wasn't typical of squishy Practitioners

_You can't juggle two worlds at once._

She ran her exposed pinky on the sharp edge of her armor. Blood welled and the connection representing the bullet’s path changed, hitting the guy next to him on the side of his pelvis. The scream caused her heart to skip a beat.

"Shit!" she yelled. Taylor sprinted from her position. Along the way, passing through foot prints of intent and psychic echoes. Specters of brutalized men and women with torn clothes, heart wrenching, but they were quickly unraveled, their tragedies added to the web. This time her baton landed without her realizing it. It hit him in the temple, leaving him reeling on the ground. As she did, the bugs whispered on the edge of her thoughts. It felt like she'd been scalped and had insects skittering on her brain. She tried to listen, to focus but she could only shudder at the sensation before making sense of it. Two of the E88 lackeys were running on the catwalk to the door. Taylor squeezed her cut until she got another drop of blood, and the spirits responded to her tip. Flies entered the web and she spun their threads.

"Please don't be allergic," she said. The two lackeys almost tripped as they received wasp stings to their calves. She ran up the metal stairs, following the smell of pain and fear. Before she could even set foot on the catwalk she dropped down at the sound of bullet fire. The remaining lackey had fear in his eyes, and with no time to get up, Taylor crawled on the floor at speeds faster than most people could run.

The man fired but found he had no more bullets. Immediately, he pushed his hands up in surrender. Taylor suddenly became aware of her position. She oriented herself up and spoke.

"You surrender?" she asked, taking a deep breath. The man simply nodded his head, staring. He choked down his fear and got his words out.

"Jo," he said in a panic. "She's-she's."

Taylor became aware of the sound of choking. The woman she had stung was now fighting to breathe through anaphylactic shock. She ran immediately to her. First night out and her first possible kill. She’d always hoped/feared that it was going to be more dramatic — A villain or arch nemesis that would just have to be put down. Instead, it was going to be an accident.

"I'm here to help. I'm here to help," Taylor repeated, used the knife to tear an opening in the pants to the side of her thigh. She realized she was shushing the woman like a parent, trying desperately to calm her down. Taylor pushed the epi pen in. She fought the reaction for an agonizing amount of time before the woman stopped. She was alive; they all were. Were they? She looked at the man with the empty gun, tears in his eyes from the excruciating pain. An E88 member breathed heavily on the warehouse floor in shock from the bullet wound, his compatriot still rattled from a blow to the head.

All in a good day’s work. She'd be haunted this night, but it wouldn't be the “needing a glass of whiskey to sleep” kind of haunted.

"I-I," Taylor spent all her breath on those words. Should she call the police or the PRT? After a long two seconds she went with the former.

_Forgetting something?_

Weaver took hold while she gathered her thoughts. Spiders moved with preternatural speed, weaving thin silk threads on the thugs’ arms and legs. Too thin to hold naturally.

"I don't know your names," she proclaimed. "But I'm placing you under arrest for..."

'The men violated them and the woman watched. So many broken people. So many venoms and so many weapons.'

"For illegal ownership of firearms. For the trafficking of illegal substances. For the illegal actions such as rape and assault!"

She felt so stupid, especially with how her voice rang out in the empty warehouse. There was no action music and audio to give it the atmosphere, like there’d been in her fantasies. It was bad acting, and talking so loud only gave away just how young she was. But she needed those three ‘illegals’ to make it work. She strongly doubted any of them had the knowledge to poke holes in her argument.

"Remain still," Taylor said, this time more naturally. "Remain silent. Remain Compliant."

Taylor tested her binding by ordering the man with the concussion to stay awake. Then she reached for her phone, only for her to realize there were lights outside the garage windows.

"Arms up!," a woman's voice yelled. She didn't turn around. It was a woman in army fatigues and an american flag scarf and sash. Miss Militia, champion of the Protectorate. Blessed by the spirit of America.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm uh..." Taylor realized she hadn't come up with masque name. "New Practitioner. I uh... stopped these guys from doing some... well."

Miss Militia broke eye contact and Taylor remained silent. A long awkward pause followed, a silence that let the hero take in the groans, panting and general mess around them. "First night?" she asked.

"...Yeah," Taylor replied. Miss Militia sighed. The weapon at her side flickered from a rifle to a glock. Its spirit radiated what Taylor could only describe as American intent: a feeling that it wanted to do something good for her while inflicting violence at the same time.

"How long?"

"The mask thing or powers?"

"Powers."

"Three weeks," Taylor answered. Miss Militia looked alarmed; she was very good at emoting with only her eyes.

"Can I ask what your practice is?"

_Spoilers._

"Not yet," Taylor replied. "It's just that...well-" Miss Militia simply raised her hand.

"No need."

"Did you bring a first aid kit?"

"Who’s injured?"

"Someone's bleeding from the leg," Taylor said, motioning her hands towards said victim, now bound and silent. "Another one, a lady had an allergic reaction, I gave her an epipen but I think she needs help. Another I think has a concussion. Finally a guy who got stung by a lot of insects. He's in pain but I think er.... yeah you get the point."

"And the man outside," Miss Militia said.

"You saw that?" Taylor asked.

"It's easy if you look hard enough," she shrugged. "Also eidetic memory."

"Right," Taylor said. "Right. So I, uh, call the police?"

"Already notified," Miss Militia said. "In the meantime I might as well talk with you. You placed them under arrest I presume?"

Her weapon changed to a knife. Was that a good sign? Did her choice of weapons ever denote feeling or emotion? Taylor knew that her weapon was alive in some way. A spirit of the second amendment and American martial prowess, capable of calling forward every weapon ever used, devised or tested by US armed forces. The being itself was a seed of the greater Spirit of the Amendments. Or as some called it, Liberty. Only the Crown and the Jade Bureaucrat rivaled it in power. Even the incarnation of Justice was subordinate to it, and Justice had power over all law enforcement, including the PRT.

"Is there a ritual for this? Like the Awakening?"

"No need," Miss Militia said. "The system is a bit more intelligent than that. As soon as the arrests are registered under your name, Justice will take note of you."

"Take note?"

"It's how heroes are acknowledged even when they aren't of the Protectorate. They and the PRT are bound to Justice and the Greater Spirits of several allied countries. They in turn control that particular karmic economy."

"So I'm officially a hero?"

"So long as you don't seriously break the law," Miss Militia said. "Justice's... let's say blessing gives you power but not really hard restrictions. An extension of those rules protects you from the more subtler workings of enemies. It hides your connections, making your secret identity a uniform and seat of power. Leave, say, a hair here and they won't be able to trace back to you. Though you could go a step further and join the Wards circle."

Wards, the teenage heroes. It’d be an opportunity to be special, famous and powerful — A teenager’s fantasy made a career. Teenagers, kids her age with all the drama that followed. She wasn't about to take a gamble with that.

"I'm sorry...I um. It doesn't sound right to me." Miss Militia raised an eyebrow.

"Any particular reason. Parental, personal or legal?" she said, adding weight to the last part.

"Just personal," Taylor replied. "It doesn't sound right to me."

"You know you'd only be taking more risks? Look around you, is this your ideal situation?"

"It’s practice."

"Practice. How many times will you practice until you’re grievous injury free."

"I'm still new to this," Taylor replied.

"Which makes it worse. Practitioners can pull at the threads of the world. They have the misfortune of being easy to deal with but dangerous to leave alone. Eventually some gang is going to try and dispatch you because it leaves things more stable for them."

"I can still continue to study," Taylor protested. "I can learn protections."

"I know you can," she reassured, motioning her hand towards the warehouse. "But yet you still throw yourself here. You have the bare bone defenses but not even close to the right arsenal. You have a taser, pepper spray and chalk dust you didn't use. I’m sure you learnt today that battle was quick, and you had no time at all to even remember using those tools. It’s the same with your abilities. You’re a Practitioner, am I right? Presumably under the tutelage of a spirit of some kind."

"...Yes."

"Does your patron grant you or bless you in any physical way? Enhance reflexes, vitality or durability?"

"I can move fast through connections."

"For how long and how well?"

Taylor bowed her head a little, hand gripping the other forearm.

"Don't really know the time. I can move in a straight line pretty well but other directions require me to...chart a path. Picking the right and stable connections. I can also rally insects and bugs. If I have enough time I can connect and eventually network and control each of them "

"Powerful," she said and Taylor blushed a little at that. "But what happens when Kaiser fills the room with blades. What happens if the Merchants sick their ghosts on you?"

"I can...figure it out," Taylor replied.

Miss Militia assessed her for a good moment. She took a small piece of paper and scribbled something on it. The words read Ms. Doe of Brockton Bay.

"A placeholder for now," she said. "Do you agree to legitimize this name until you might take on a better one?"

"What will it do?"

"Summoning," Miss Militia said. "Justice needs a name for you after all. Once you are willing to disclose it, just inform us."

Taylor took the note. "I agree to use this name." Miss Militia smiled.

"Be fast though," Miss Militia said, putting another hand over hers. "These are placeholders after all and keeping the name for too long tends to taint it for everyone else after."

Taylor nodded dumbly. She wanted to look serious but all she could do was stare.

"One more thing," the hero said.

"Yeah?"

"This can't happen again," Miss Militia said. Taylor immediately came back to reality. "I'm not going to give the hard sell. It never works, it pushes people away when otherwise they might drift closer to the Protectorate. When you’re a hero, you bring justice. Bringing justice, biblical style or modern, gives you power. But this kind of thing racks up a debt. I don't like it, but a certain amount of brutality does actually help you, mainly because spirits usually judge how much a person deserves to suffer. However, get too brutal and eventually you start racking a karmic debt in Justice's ledger. Rack up enough and eventually well...let's just say joining might not be optional."

Taylor just nodded dumbly. Miss Militia let go of her hand.

"But it takes a lot to get that far, and the fact that you actually listened does give me hope," she continued. Miss Militia's knife became an assault rifle. "I'll follow up my end but be sure to register with the PRT. It’s easy and keeps the witch hunters from having to follow you around."

Taylor nodded sheepishly. Miss Militia wanted to say something but was cut off by sirens, and went off to notify the police.

The sirens sang red and blue. Cop cars and ambulances pulled by. She wanted to focus but somehow the appearance of mundane law enforcement only made it more surreal. The bindings were kept firm by the power of law, their purpose to uphold an arrest. Therefore they obeyed the police and gave way so they could be properly handcuffed and charged. Taylor gave the cops her statements and sat through their questioning and silent personal judgement. She told them where the drugs were hidden, where they could find traces of DNA, from people that were hurt here. Lastly, she gave the descriptions of the echoes she glimpsed with her Sight.

"Should I go home?" Taylor said quietly, while Miss Militia gave her statement.

_Do you wish to?_

"Yeah."

_Good, because this is the end._

"What's that supposed to mean?"


	2. Fable 1.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor pays the price for her power.

She'd experienced this before. Fingers aching as she banged on metal. The smell of rotting blood and the legs of insects. She remembered giving up on banging and started thrashing to kill the insects, because at that time, at that moment, she genuinely believed them to be under her skin.

Only two hours. She swore it was longer but she supposed time would go on and on for anyone in her position. She wondered if it had to with that day being the second worst day of her life, or it being the day she made contact with Weaver. She stopped dwelling on it when other stories made themselves clear. She saw her mom, her dad, Emma and of course Sophia. The stories of her life, but they didn't belong to her, not anymore. She gave them up weeks before she even became a Practitioner.

She was happier that way, or at least she didn't suffer as much. Loneliness no longer felt like a painful absence and Emma's actions, while cruel, didn't stab as deep as they used to. The memory of her mother was worse in its own way. It should've been the opposite, considering Taylor didn't miss her anymore.

Weaver was here of course. Taylor always thought she'd go for a feminine appearance but there was no doubt it was a boy staring back at her. He looked almost like her. In fact he did look like her, like if she had a twin brother. Not unusual; Weaver had an odd fascination with the human form, specifically the parts that had to do with identity. Details like ethnicity, faces, scars, femininity and masculinity. She usually used Taylor's reaction as a form of feedback.

"Here for another look?" Weaver said, sitting beside her on an abstract shore. A coast defined not by land and water but by figure and ground. Endlessly shifting, but framed by a web vaster than any sky, every story a dew drop of starlight on a spun glass web. Taylor never could fully comprehend what this place was. It was where Weaver fed, where she wove her web and cared for the stories. Where those narratives bloomed and gave form to the formless.

"Try this one," Weaver said, and in a moment Taylor's mind went somewhere closer to home.  
___

Director Piggot was a woman wreathed in lightning — Lines of power that were the halo of her seat and office, connections reaching out far and wide to nodes across Justice's hierarchy. Invisible to the innocent but one need not be Awoken to see the other effects she carried with her. She had long since leached the color and detail of the world here, reducing everything to their bare minimum. Like the office was an incomplete art piece. Piggot had been taught no magic, but she faced the consequences of dealing with it. Work in a coal mine and dust coats your lungs, work as a radiologist and you risk cancer, work with the Other and your existence might become something like hers.

"She really said it like that?" the Director asked, stirring lead into her coffee.

"Rule of threes. People think it's the cheat to empower everything," Miss Militia said, who was almost blinding in how colorful and detailed she was in comparison to what was around her. "Her arrest was spot on however. The psychics confirmed so. The binding was well done too, in spite of the melodrama."

Piggot rolled her eyes. She sat behind a desk, back turned to a window that shined lifeless gray light.

"New Practitioners," she said with annoyance, eyes landing on a clock that hadn't ticked in five years. "I'm assuming you gave her the sell."

Miss Militia pondered that for a second. Piggot drank the coffee and its warmth, leaving the dregs frozen at the bottom of her cup.

"Soft as I could go," Miss Militia said. "It's for the best. She seems safe for now. The warehouse was a relative minor target and she seems like a smart girl. I don't take her to be the type to punch as high as possible."

Director Piggot looked skeptical at that assessment. She put the new file in her drawer.

"I guess I'll tell someone to keep an office space warm for her," Piggot said, sliding it shut. "Now about that ri-"  
__  
Taylor pulled out of that one as quick as she could.

She smiled. 'Miss Militia thinks I'm smart.'

She blushed, that is until she realized. 'I spied on the head of the PRT.'

Weaver smiled in her place.

He silently gathered another drop. The reflections on it unfolded into another captured scene.  
__

Victoria was on patrol as usual. She was in costume, a white outfit that caught the elements of a saint and a demigod. Aunt Sarah warned her to be wary of flying today. Sarah argued that Sirius would shine bright tonight and she didn’t know how it would affect Apollo's gift of flight. Mom on the other hand argued that the gift’s promise was binding. That so long as the sun, moon and stars hung in the sky, Victoria would be free to join them. She somewhat agreed but knew she still had hours before the sun even set.

If she was late, maybe she'd even have a good excuse, tell her Mom the Dog Star struck her down. That would be a lie however. To lie is to sin and to sin is to... What was the last part? She didn't care. She waved at her passing fans, basking in their wonder, and let sunlight pool on her skin like oil. Once she was all charged up, she continued with her patrol. Victoria let out her aura, letting it soak into the urban decay. Another divine gift. Wherever she passed, rust turned to metal and neglected streetlights saw a bright but brief new lease on life. She was in that moment her own idol, flying high and blissful in her own glory. That is until she heard the distant scream. Someone was in trouble.

"Hang on," Victoria said, orienting herself in the right direction. "Won't even take a minute."

She shot forward like a flare, too fast to be seen.  
__

"That one was a lot more flavorful," Weaver noted, closer to the form of a spider. Taylor shook her imaginary head and looked at eyes that could devour more than any mouth. Saw the twitching of legs, sharp enough to flense meaning from metaphor.

"I think I've had enough," Taylor said.

"Yes," Weaver agreed. "You'll have more when you need it."  
__

Taylor woke with a crick in her neck. Something hard was bulging from the pillow case. Her phone perhaps? She reached in and pulled out a stack of twenty dollar bills.

"Nice," Taylor said, unsure if she meant it. "You couldn't give me a paycheck?" she mumbled.

_You needed a reward. The police would have seized the money and liquidated it. I simply took a few bundles and placed them here_

"A few?"

_Look under your bed_

Taylor did so hesitantly. There were twelve more bricks. Not wanting to get out of bed, she stretched herself reaching for one, grabbing it carefully as though it might suddenly disappear. How was she going to explain this? Taylor got out of bed, blanket still draped around her and locked the door.

She took the straps and laid them out on her desk. Each one was a stack of twenty dollar bills. The straps were each around two thousand dollars and the Empire seemed to be rather formal in counting. So she was looking at around twenty four thousand dollars, assuming each had two thousand.

"Holy shit," she whispered. This was a little over half her Dad's yearly income. Earned all in one night. She didn't know what to do with this. She was fifteen years old and even just one of these straps would have her flagged or under watch. Not to mention she didn't even have a bank account, or know the process to get one. She needed help.

"Can you help, Weaver?"

_No_

Ok, that was one avenue explored. What else? She looked around her room and saw her desktop. Computer equal knowledge, excellent.

'Awake,' the house spiders notified her. 'He is awake.'

She groaned. Her Dad came first. Taylor put on a shirt and slippers, went to the bathroom to wash up and went downstairs. Her Dad seemed a bit absent minded and was currently frying eggs on a pan. Four eggs for the both of them. She never understood how he made eggs so well without them sticking to the pan.

"Morning Dad!" she said, with more energy than she intended to add.

"Taylor?" Danny said, somewhat startled. "You woke up early today."

Taylor shrugged. Danny seemed even more bewildered. She suddenly realized that her Dad didn't recognize her with all this energy.

"You seem well rested," he commented. "Anything happen after you finished your courses?"

"Just doing as planned," she said. "I snuck out in the middle of the night. Beat up some gangsters and got congratulated by Miss Militia."

There was a pause and Danny started laughing.

"Taylor," he said, feeling a little more refreshed now himself. "Don't even joke about."

"I won't," she said smiling.

"I'm glad you had an..." he chuckled. "Epic night."

Taylor grinned.

"How was your night?'

"Usual," Danny said. "Mayor is having a charity event sometime this month. He's hiring us to help out. If we do well we might get a cut."

"Sounds good," Taylor said, getting an apple and closing the fridge. She bit into it, finding the taste odd. No not the taste, something else. Her appetite, perhaps? She felt a little thirsty but not really hungry or tired. Still, she wasn't going to waste food. She ate the apple quickly to get it out of the way.

"Do you want a third egg?" Danny asked, noticing the speed of her eating. Taylor shook her head.

"Two is enough, just one piece of toast as well. I thought maybe I'd include some fruit in my diet as well."

Danny just shrugged. He seemed more well rested too, or maybe it was him seeing his daughter in good spirit. Happy that she was finally out of Winslow, perhaps?

"Why not orange juice?"

"Because," Taylor replied, mouth full. She swallowed what she chewed. "Fruit juice is effectively just soda without fizz, Dad."

She didn't need to face him to know he was rolling his eyes. Taylor ate breakfast and continued chatting with her Dad. Once finished she washed her dishes and went back upstairs to her room. The desktop was slow and she took a look at her notebook to see if there was anything about manipulating a machine spirit. Nothing, but even if there was it probably wouldn't be a good idea. She needed to be a miser for now, saving her power solely for her identity as...

She still hadn’t come up with a name. So Taylor looked up what she could. All the good masque names were taken. She looked for something relating to narrative, spiders and storytelling. Narrator didn't feel right and Chronicler was taken by a chronomancing Ward. She thought for a while before choosing. Luckily, Seamstress wasn't taken. She considered that one down. Next was... well everything else.

Practitioners and Hosts Online was running as usual, people were commenting on the latest paranormal news. She frowned as she saw the title of one article: Congress passes further restrictions on Practitioners. Nothing new there. Practitioners were already forbidden from practicing law and running for public office, and the latest one barred Practitioners from accounting positions. She had no desire to be a lawyer or a mayor so she moved on.

She quickly went down the rabbit hole and refreshed herself on Practitioner history. She read up on the golden age of heroes: How the Protectorate and the King's Men purged the courts of the Fae. She learned more about Eidolon, the man who stole fire from the gods and broke hungering pantheons. Then there were the messes that came after: Glaistig Uaine killing the avatar of the Crown. The coming of the Endbringers. Doctor Hayden tearing a hole in the world. The horrors of the Fallen and their demons, steadily eating away at several Southern and Mid Western states.

The next bit of research was a lot more fruitful and relevant. It was an account of the life of a Practitioner during the days before Scion. The practitioner talked about the dynamics and civilian life of those with magic, the brutal Karmic system and the use of trusted liars known as the Black Guards. Oxymoronic but the practice made sense. She looked that up as well and wouldn't you know the first link was a company called Liar for Hire.

She moved to click on it. It was a great idea. Click on a website meant to offer services for Practitioners. On her home computer. Without VPN or even an attempt to go on incognito mode. Taylor closed that window and deleted her search history. But not before jotting down their phone number on the screen.

Alright, good progress so far. Now to leave for some privacy.  
__

A mosquito bit a woman who was too busy arguing with someone on the phone. It left after having its fill. Satisfied in terms of hunger, but it knew it still had a mission to carry out. The mosquito landed on a sheet of paper that was inked with a rune of silence. The last thing it, and two others, felt was a thumb pressing it to death on the paper. Taylor whispered her words and the rune glowed bright from the power of the messy offering.

She had her silence, now for the call.

"Liars For Hire how might we help you?"

"Uh hi, I'm rather new to all this."

“Right and what would you need?"

“I recently acquired a large amount of money I need to explain away," Taylor said, and the man on the other side kept quiet. "I'm registered with the PRT! I'm going as Seamstress."

There was a pause. She heard him talking with someone else.

"Yes, that we can work with," the man said. "Alright, here's the package deal I have for you."

"I'm listening."

"I say we kill two birds with one stone. Liars for Hire owns a few shell corporations. What you're going to do is apply for a job in one of those companies so we can hire you. We'll give you an on paper salary, you can set it however much you like. However that money will be the money you give to us, which we'll return back as payment. Alright?"

"Yes. I'm with you."

"How much money do you have?"

"I have twenty five thousand," Taylor said.

“Good here’s our prices. For the hiring and initial deal, three thousand dollars. If you wish to have a representative meet with friends, loved ones or guardians, that will be seven thousand dollars. Paper and identification is three thousand."

"We'll deduct six thousand," the man said. "We can do more if you wish to continue your subscription.”

"Subscription?"

"Your 'job' with one of our companies. This requires quite a continuous source of income you know. If the twenty five thousand is all then you can cancel now and just keep the money."

"No," Taylor said. "I plan on keeping this up. I'll add in more money."

"Would you like to pay in full now, or should we just deduct it from your paycheck?"

"Deduct from paycheck.”

“Excellent. We do still need quite a few more details to work with."  
__  
"Dad."

"Yes," he said, changing channels on the TV.

"I got a job."

He turned off the TV.

"I know what you're thinking!" Taylor said. "I told him what I was worried about and let me tell you, his job offer is amazing. He even says he can meet with you. "

"When?"

"Are you available four hours from now?" Taylor said. "I just need to know if you’re available to sit down and meet with him."

Soon enough Mr. Visser showed up at their door. Danny seemed apprehensive. It wasn't crazy to think that a teenager could get hired in this economy but it was the danger of Brockton that worried him. He needed to be sure that Taylor would stay safe when commuting. Mr. Visser took his hat off, and gave a friendly smile . He was a tall middle aged dark skinned man with a friendly smile.

"Mr. Hebert," he said, smiling. Offering his hand. "I'm glad that you could let me."

"Please call me Danny," her Dad said, shaking the hand.

Visser and Taylor made eye contact, time to lay on the charm.  
__

"People always say I have an eye for green flags. Diamond in the rough and all that crap. I really believe that Taylor would do well to work with us," Mr. Visser said. "I have an eye for these sorts of things, and honestly, someone up there has given her a talent for paperwork and editing. Our company is in short supply of employees. We get funding but people don't really apply as they used to."

Danny nodded.

"I heard a friend talk about that," he said. "But don't you need a degree?"

"it's more of a paid internship," Taylor said. "They're changing how they hire employees mainly because not as many people in Brockton want to get the degree and certifications for the job. People see English major and they walk right the other way. So the way it works is that I learn on the job and take courses on the side."

"You’re taking more classes now?"

"I pl-They've scheduled me for online courses and everything."

"This is good and all, but what about the commute?"

"Safest place in the bay," Mr. Visser replied. "In the more policed area. Champions patrol here and it's a minute’s drive from the police station. One of the few places in the Bay where you can walk alone at night."

"So," Taylor said. "What do you think?"

Danny gave a sad laugh.

"Have to let you out of the nest eventually."

Taylor gave him a hug. Danny had a smile on his face and a hint of something sadder behind it.

"Thank you! You're the best!" she stated. He hugged back. When was the last time he'd seen her this happy?"

The rest of their meeting went as planned. Mr. Visser spent that time making himself seem as harmless and trustworthy as possible. He gave the charm of a caring grandpa and respectable uncle. He almost reminded him of his old mentor in the union.

"I think it's getting late," Mr. Visser said.

"Eight thirty already?" Danny said, surprised. "Probably for the best."

They exchanged good byes and shook hands one last time.

"Nice guy," Danny said. Taylor wanted to agree with that, but that would be a lie. So she gave a neutral smile.

"I'm going to bed," she said.

"Good night," he said, watching her go up to the bathroom.

"Night," Taylor said. "I love you," she said when she was out of sight.

"Love you too."

He breathed a sigh of something. Relief? Satisfaction? When was the last time either of them talked and had a conversation that wasn't just full of okays and yeahs? When was the last time he saw her moving forward in her life instead of suffering silently with him? It’d been far too long. He looked at the table and realized he still needed to clean the dishes.  
__

By 11:00 Danny was asleep, sticking firmly to his side of the bed, leaving his wife’s spot vacant. His daughter, however, was at the top of a building watching a drug dealer go down an alley. She played cat's cradle with a loop of spider silk, her hands pressed together, ready to pull. Down below she had flies carry the spiders to do their work near the end of the man's path. The dealer walked through them, webbing catching on his pants without him even noticing. Silk from the same three spiders that wove the loop in Taylor’s hand. Taylor pulled her hands apart, bringing like to like. The man tripped just as he was about to exit. She crawled down the building and prepared to reel him in. The man's eyes widened as he saw her dress suit and the silk scarves that covered her face.

"No no no," he kept repeating as he tried to drag himself by his hands. Taylor tightened the frame, the silk cradle entangled with a mechanism of connection, to drag the man closer. She had dialed the police before hand as she needed to maintain the binding on his legs.

"Did you tell them those needles were used?" Taylor asked.

"They-" the man cut himself off as he was tugged closer to the Seamstress. He was incoherent, trying desperately to free himself.

"Answer the question?" Taylor repeated. He was having a panic attack now. She asked the spiders to come but they ignored her. A thought came to her, an idea. A feeling like the moment you realize you're in a dream. The next words came out of her mouth as easily as a breath.

"Tell me about yourself?"

The man paused, looking strained.

"It started when I got kicked out of college," he said, tone clear and coherent, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to look away but couldn't. "I didn't know what I was going to do with my life. How I was going to-" He grunted, struggling against something she couldn't see. "...Face my parents, and I started looking around."

Taylor rotated her hands, so that the man would be on his side. He continued talking and Weaver fed.

When the police came, they saw the scene of a bound George still narrating his life to Taylor. They overheard him talking about losing custody of his daughter. His voice was clear, but his expression looked as if he was having his teeth pulled out. There was something resigned about it as well.

"Seamstress," the Officer said. She didn't answer, her hands strained tense against the silk, so tight that without gloves she would’ve cut herself. The dealer was still on the floor babbling out every detail of his life. The police became cautious.

"Seamstress!" he said, louder. The man was now sobbing quietly. Taylor finally snapped out of it, though her hands were still holding the cradle.

"Huh? Oh, right," she said. "I've uh, caught this man selling drugs. I think heroin but I can't say for certain."

The officer stared at her and she noticed they had their hands on their belts.

"Of course," said the policeman right next to him. Taylor nodded awkwardly, she seemed confused at the tension of the police.

George continued sobbing quietly. The realization of his pain, sank Taylor’s stomach. She wanted to help, to undo the damage.

But...by the morning he would be a man less haunted.  
__

That night, Taylor laid on her bed, eyes open.

"That wasn't very nice of you."

_What?_

"The man," Taylor said. "He loved his daughter."

_No use pining for what he can't get back. He'll be a man less-_

"Haunted? Bringing up the thoughts you planted now? Those were parts of him we sucked out. We basically stole what he loved.”

_I say we’re healing what normally can’t heal._

"It still wasn't right."

_Better to have never loved at all than to have loved and lost. If you must love, then only do so to what you won’t lose, Taylor._

Taylor stayed silent. She couldn't explain the feeling. How could she explain missing her grief?

_Do you feel bad because you feel worse off? Or do you feel bad because you think you're supposed to feel bad? ___

__"Good night Weaver," Taylor said, not wanting to continue. Weaver didn’t reply. Frustrating, like trying to argue with a toddler. She'd take solace in the fact that Taylor would drift to sleep less sure in her mind set._ _

___Good night child_ _ _

__Taylor closed her eyes and Weaver lulled her to rest._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank the betas over at Cauldron. They're the real talent here.

**Author's Note:**

> Note, this is probably my first real story. Up until now it's mostly been resigned to the depths of Spacebattle's creative writing forum. But I decided to start moving some of my stories here as well. While I haven't 100% given up on this idea, but since writing this other things I've had other priorities writing wise. As usual I'd appreciate commentary and criticism.


End file.
